The blink of an eye..that's all it took for love to pass me by.

The more fleeting your encounter with a person, an idea or a place, the more magical and meaningful that experience is. That seemed to be the common message woven within the storylines of Midnight in Paris and Before Sunrise.

Perhaps it was fortuitous that I watched both films on consecutive days. In Midnight in Paris, we have the protagonist falling for a woman from another era. They share a single kiss and in that moment, he feels immortal. It is the kind of magic he has never experienced with his fiancee. On the other hand, the protagonists of Before Sunrise have but a single day and night together, before they must part ways. Both films were immensely beautiful and both reiterated the charm of a transient love. The word 'love' does not make an appearance in either relationship but the viewer is aware that they are soulmates. Though I was charmed by these stories, they set me thinking. Why is it that the epic love stories are always tragedies or transient encounters? Is it that a lifelong romance is too mundane and too riddled with familiar roadblocks to make it to the pages of a magnum opus?

There is an element of truth in the conversations that Jesse and Celine have in Before Sunrise. They talk about how relationships go downhill when they last too long. The things you once found endearing about the other person begin to grate on your nerves, says Jesse. Is that true? I have never had a romantic relationship that lasted longer than two years. But I've known several people for much longer than that and I don't love them any less than I did when I first befriended them. We can discount family from this discussion because those are ties wrought by genetics, interdependence and bonding that can never compare to voluntary relationships.

Applying the same logic to moments, I recall the time when I breakfasted at Le Cafe in Pondicherry, with the sea glittering behind my back and my hair blowing in the breeze. If I shut my eyes, I can experience the serenity and the bliss I felt then, with crystal clarity. But how was that moment any superior to the one I am experiencing now? This moment where I sit cross-legged on my bed, with the sun streaming in and these words pouring out of consciousness? What makes some encounters and experiences more special than the others? I believe it is just the connotation we attach to them that makes them more memorable than the rest. That, and the intoxication of knowing that those moments may not return and those people may not be encountered again.

The certainty of seeing my mother in the kitchen each morning, of brushing my teeth and walking down the street outside my house somehow diminishes their charm. Or at least, that's what I glean from several films and novels. I beg to differ, though. In fact, I differ with complete conviction and defiance! I believe that every encounter, every relationship and every moment can be infused with the magic reserved to 'once-in-a-lifetime' occurrences. All it takes is a little imagination. A little attention to detail. A small pause. And the sudden realisation that you simply adore the person you are with. The ground you're standing on. The air you're breathing. And the life you're living. :)

The Girl Who Died Next Door - 8

My car heaved and lurched as it raced over pothole-ridden roads. The good thing about these jolts was their democratic nature. Young or old, famous or nondescript, every single soul in cars, on bikes and in buses rose and fell rhythmically with the road’s ups and downs. Idly, I wished I could capture them mid-motion, in a photograph. People gazing rapturously down at their phones, people with their noses pressed to their windows, people with arms and dupattas dangling outside autos and people with handkerchiefs pressed to their noses to insulate from the smoke. “Do you enjoy photography?” I asked Shayan, who sat with his hands crossed in his lap, the picture of docile obedience. “Not really.” “Why not? Aren’t art and photography closely related to each other?” I persisted. His hands uncrossed themselves and a glitter appeared in his eye. “There is a fundamental difference between the two,” he said earnestly, leaning towards me while I continued to deny him, peering at the traffic instead. “Art can never be duplicated. Yes, we have excellent forgeries but there will always be a flaw somewhere, tiny though it may be. But with photography, it is possible to duplicate a picture with the very same composition and time of the day.” I smirked. Shayan was starting to become predictable now. “So you’re saying that visual art is superior to photography. All artistes believe their discipline is superior to everything else – be they photographers, painters or musicians,” I remarked. He shrugged. “I don’t know about that. But I do know that my work has to be exclusive.” I took the car a few inches ahead. “You discount too much. There are so many technicalities involved in photography. I’m sure a professional will be able to provide many counter-arguments.” Being an amateur photographer, I was aware of terms like shutter and aperture but I knew better than to expound on their intricacies.

***

There is no particular trait common to all camera-friendly individuals. Television anchors may be extroverts, introverts, aggressive or peaceful people. But none of that matters when the director gives his cue. So I had no way of predicting the sort of relationship Shayan would develop with the camera. “Were you aware of the events that led to flat 103’s owners moving out when you rented it?” Oddly, I felt as though I was in a courtroom. We waited to see how the witness would respond. “No, I was not. I was in a hurry to find a suitable flat and this one sounded perfect. I was hardly inclined to ask the owners why they moved out.” He could have been talking to me on his couch, a mug of coffee cradled in his hands. We had hit the jackpot. Shayan was that rare commodity who was totally oblivious to the camera. “So you think that tragedies should have no impact over the value of real estate?” I stayed out of the frame, this being a byte and not a full-fledged interview. Shayan shrugged. “I don’t really have an opinion. But I do believe that every place has its own vibe. If you like it, then you choose the house. If not, you don’t. That, coupled with practical factors like location and size make the decision for you.” I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to use that. It sounded too whimsical. But personally, I agreed with Shayan. I asked him to stay for lunch but he declined, as I had known he would. “Shayan,” I said suddenly when he was about to descend the staircase. “Thank you.” We stood there, a few feet apart, our eyes entwined in a smile. It was a good moment.

***

One Saturday evening, I woke up from a disturbed afternoon nap to find that I had slept through my jogging time. Hurriedly, I pulled on the Nike pants and sports bra that made me feel particularly sexy. I opened the door and found two ghosts staring me right in the eye. “Mr and Mrs Ganguly,” I said at last. They looked tired and gaunt, as though the sun denied them its daily lustre. “What a surprise,” I added, unable to prefix the surprise with ‘pleasant’. Mrs Ganguly’s face twisted into a parody of a smile. “We thought we’d collect this month’s rent in person; see how things were faring around here,” she explained. I wondered if they had seen Shayan’s paintings of their dead daughter. “No one is answering the door though. Do you know where Shayan is?” Mr Ganguly asked. I was relieved. I didn’t think their weary spirits could bear another shock. “I’m sorry, I have no idea. Would you like to come in for some tea?” I hoped they would refuse my offer. The Gangulys were nice enough people but after those unsettling dreams, I needed the release of a good run. And then it occurred to me that perhaps Suvarna was haunting their psyche too. So I held the door wide open and allowed the Gangulys to walk in. “Please make yourself comfortable,” I said mechanically. I brewed the tea in my kitchen, wondering if Mrs Ganguly noticed the peeling walls or the way the sunrays filtered through my curtains. I imagined them looking into the distance vacantly, each lost in their own memories. I had an overactive imagination. The tea came to a boil.

“We were lucky to find a tenant for this flat despite...” Of course he couldn’t complete the sentence. “Suvarna’s death?” I wanted to say cruelly. After all, they had conveniently left it out while leasing the flat to Shayan. But instead, I smiled. “It’s nice to have a neighbour again.” I wondered how to broach the subject of Suvarna’s haunting. Were the Gangulys superstitious? ‘Aren’t all Indians?’ my alter ego smirked back at me. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” I began with a deep breath. “Do you sometimes feel like you can sense Suvarna’s presence? In your dreams perhaps?” Mrs Ganguly gasped. “What are you talking about?” her husband asked, sounding a tad defensive. “I dream about her,” I admitted. And then I noticed that Mrs Ganguly had begun sobbing. Her husband noticed at the same time. “Look what you’ve done!” The man was furious. This wasn’t going well at all. “I’m sor...” I began but they were already leaving. “We should never have come back here,” Mr Ganguly snarled before banging the door into my face. My door, in fact. I wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery of Suvarna’s haunting. But I had spared the Gangulys the trauma of witnessing their daughter age on canvas. At least, that’s how I rationalised Mrs Ganguly’s tears away. 

(To be continued)

Help.

Pic: Ankita Shreeram

That's a call for help directed at my own self and the universe at large. Because while I seek solace in my family and my friends, they can't really see right through to my soul. And I can't show them, even if I want to. "No one really understands," is a refrain we hear every now and then. All of us feel it, at some moment or the other - this niggling feeling that our problems are unique. Psychologists can cry themselves hoarse about the similar nature of angst faced at different stages of life but the truth is, no two humans experience pain in the same manner. Eckhart Tolle writes about the 'pain-body' in his theses on spirituality and the deeper meaning of human life. This pain body is a kind of destructive alter-ego and it represents the accumulation of all the negative feelings and experiences we have been through. These feelings and experiences cast lasting impressions on our memories and over time, lead us to believe in harmful patterns that soon become self-fulfilling prophecies. Believe it enough and it will be true. Unfortunately, that is an axiom that works both ways. Believe that you are unworthy of good things and life will prove it to you. Believe that you are the most splendid being on this planet and life will prove that to you as well. Somewhere in my childhood, I began to believe that I wasn't worth being befriended and that I was too ugly to be loved. Today, I know that neither of that is true. I've struggled with my demons and I have managed to lull them from time to time. I've reaped the rewards in terms of a few good relationships and an increased sense of well-being. But I will admit that I haven't entirely slayed them. My 'pain-body' is still in existence. I love solving other people's problems. Reaching out to them and easing their pain brings me satisfaction. But at the end of the day, it is only a means of distraction from my own issues. The 'other' is always easier to perceive and resolve. It is the 'self' that confounds and tortures. Relationships crumble when two people come too close for comfort. Imagine the relationship you have with yourself - so close that you are one. So close that dichotomy makes no sense and yet it exists! There is duality in every sense - I talk to myself like there are two of me, I wrestle with myself like I'm my own opponent and when I smile, I feel an echo from deep within. And that perhaps is the crux. The alter-ego is merely an echo of our real selves. And an echo says nothing new. An echo reveals nothing of importance. An echo is but a mere repetition. The affirmations are our own to make. Let them be so strong that their echoes resonate till the end of time. Let the belief in one's beauty and purity be so strong that nothing can cause a chink in that armour of positive energy. Help is ever at hand, in one's own heart and in every atom that makes up the pseudo-reality around us. It's strange. None of this is real but the problems this unreality churns up feel so crushingly real. I've been looking for salvation since a long time. I was briefly distracted by work - my karma. Now I am distracted by lust - kama. Neither of them are an end in themselves. They are merely means to an unending series of desires and disappointments. Love will make sense only when I slay my demons completely and find a partner whose demons have been cast into nothingness as well. Until then, every entanglement will be just that - a complicated, agonising twist of difficult-to-decipher words, feelings and expectations. Marriage will make sense only when it is between two souls who are complete in themselves and yet seek to create a greater, deeper reality by combining their life paths. In any other case, it will merely be a parody of what it's meant to be. 

Why do so many Bestsellers make it to the Rejection Pile?

Nearly every time that a book hits the bestseller lists, the event is inevitably followed by an article on how said book was rejected by a gazillion publishers before it made it to the presses. Why on earth would the world’s foremost publishers close the doors on age-defining novels like the Harry Potter series, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, Animal Farm, Gone with the Wind and Chicken Soup for the Soul? A quick read through the rejection histories of some of the most widely read novels in the world reveals that the reasons ranged from ‘not interesting enough’ to ‘too controversial’ or even the inane ‘too long’. In fact, it all boils down to the whims and fancies of those occupying the editorial positions at these publishing houses.

Bias against New Authors

Printing books is an expensive business and most of the times, publishers are loathe to experiment with a new writer. But then, the number of noteworthy first-time authors is so massive that this trend ought to have been bucked by now - Paul Harding, Arundhati Roy, Christie Watson and Kathy Taylor to name a few.  According to Andrew Franklin, publisher and managing director of Profile Books, only 20 out of 500 fiction submissions each year are eventually commissioned. That makes it a meagre 4% acceptance rate. Other experts cite an even lower figure – 2%. For an unknown name to cut through that clutter is a Herculean task. Yet, it does seem unfair when celebrities who haven’t a clue how to write a readable book get published in a jiffy. But who said there was any fairness in the world of creativity? Luckily for first-time writers, several avenues have opened up in self-publishing.

Intolerance for Offbeat Subjects

It is so much easier to go with what’s been tried and tested when there is money and painstakingly-built reputation at stake. Yet, the best novels have little precedent. That’s what makes them so extraordinary and memorable. Controversial subjects as in the case of George Orwell’s Animal Farm, an allegory on Stalin’s reign over the Soviet Union or simply hitherto unexplored themes as in the case of Rowling’s Harry Potter are both impediments for publication. Does that mean that writers should not dare to explore? That they should stick to mundane themes that are bound to interest readers? That’s certainly not the message publishers would want to broadcast to the literati.

Being Blind to what Readers Want

The trouble with publishers is the sheer volume of manuscripts that they receive on a daily basis. Jadedness is bound to seep into the editor’s decision-making process when he/she has to sift through a mind-numbing number of stories every day. But is that an excuse for failing to set personal preferences and prejudices aside and judging a book solely on its ability to capture the imaginations of its target audience? Personally, I find the Chicken Soup series overtly idealistic and plain ordinary at times. But does that take away from the books’ ability to touch a chord with the majority of readers out there? Of course it doesn't.

Tons of excellent children’s books have been rejected by hard-nosed publishers who could have simply taken a child’s opinion on the manuscript before dismissing it as ‘silly’ or ‘boring’. If stories are to be believed, that’s how Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone finally made it to Bloomsbury’s presses. Chairman Nigel Newton gave the manuscript to his eight year old daughter on a whim and when the child returned within hours, asking for more, he began to realise that he might have just landed a winner.

In Conclusion

Of course, to give publishers due credit, they also have solid reasons for rejecting manuscripts. The number one reason is that the book does not fit the publishing house’s profile or requirements. Authors need to ensure that they send their books to the right imprint, depending on the genre and target audience. All major publishers like Penguin and Harper Collins have numerous imprints catering to each genre. Additionally, even when a publisher has a diverse profile, they have an agenda at any given point in time. If publisher Z has decided to focus on thrillers for the time being, even the best romance novel may be relegated to the rejection pile.

The best solution seems to be to hire more manpower to devote the deserved attention to those whopping piles of manuscripts. Appointing freelance commissioning editors would be a great way for publishers to minimise the potential bestsellers they miss out on. Already, new agents are entering the market to cater to the burgeoning number of manuscripts being penned by immensely talented writers worldwide. And with the advent of e-readers, multimedia publishers need not worry about shrinking sales. 

Snapshots of Love

Was it love when we stood on the seaside promenade in the stormy rain, listing all the reasons we shouldn't be together while our eyes were helplessly drawn to each other's lips? Was it love when I would crawl out of bed at 2 AM so I could exchange a few words with you, which inevitably turned into an hour long conversation? Was it love when we pledged to be together forever, finding ways to fit into each other's dreams? Was it love when you felt compelled to pour out every idea to me in excruciating detail, while the mere sound of your voice set my senses on fire? Was it love when I searched for reasons to speak to you, your words providing me solace in the darkest hours? Was it love when I declared my passion for you, intoxicated and incoherent, surrounded by so many censuring eyes? Was it love when all I looked forward to  were your Skype calls even though the connection allowed us to exchange barely a few lines? Was it love when I couldn't enjoy a single day at work after you quit, assailed as I was by your memories? Was it love when you said you missed me, that whoever I'd be with would be immeasurably lucky? Was it love when the mere mention of your name made me blush furiously? Was it love when your embrace made me feel like I was finally whole? Was it? 

The Girl Who Died Next Door - 7

Like water, some of us flow through life effortlessly, changing form and colour as required and never resenting the loss of our individuality. And then there are those like me who wear their individuality like an unshakable cloak, refusing to change or adapt to the extent of self-defeating rigidity. Yet, in Shayan's arms, I felt fluid and removed from myself. His hands could have shaped the sway of my emotions in any which way they desired. Later, I would be outraged at that temporary loss of hold on myself. But in that moment, I found it beautiful. I found it incredibly magical. And I wanted it to go on forever.

"I drew another portrait," he confessed, instantly turning the warmth in my bones to shards of ice. "Did you draw her?" I asked, unwilling to extricate myself from his embrace. His hands released me instead. My flushed skin embarrassed me. Why did I kiss him? But he kissed you back, my mind whispered. "Her? The portrait bears a resemblance to the previous one I drew, yes," Shayan said, all of a sudden aloof. "I feel compelled to draw..I've never felt this way before. It's actually quite exhilarating!" he continued. Suvarna's spirit exhilarated him? The thought repulsed me. All I said was, "Show me."

The easel stood in the intimate interiors of his bedroom this time. "I drew the portrait as soon as I awoke from a nap," Shayan said by way of explanation, probably cued in by my questioning eyebrows. Bless body language. There was no doubt about it. The tilt of her chin, the curve of that nose and the shimmer in her eyes - Shayan had captured Suvarna's essence perfectly. And if it was possible, she looked even more alluring in this avatar, closer to thirty than twenty five. "She has aged further," I commented stonily. "Yeah. She just seems to get lovelier with every passing portrait," Shayan mused, making my gut twist. "It's Suvarna. You don't find this the slightest bit disturbing? The fact that you keep drawing her portraits and she keeps aging in them as though she were still alive?" "That's an interesting theory!" Shayan murmured, his head tilted to one side. "As though she were still alive. Indeed. Perhaps it's my sub-conscious that is trying to offer her a convoluted form of justice through these portraits." At least, he had now accepted that it was Suvarna he kept drawing. "What when she dies in your portraits as well?" I asked, strangely scared for this man who seemed so willing to be in the grip of an unknown paranormal force. "We'll see," he said, his lips curving in a lopsided smile. I didn't smile back. "Why did you kiss me?" I wanted to ask. And what if he said, "Because you did"? That would crush me. That really wasn't what I wanted to hear. And so I left the question unasked. I left my thirst unquenched.

***

I believe in ghosts. I believe in all sorts of phenomena. After all, we have long since established that anything is possible as long as it is within the purview of human imagination, and perhaps even when it's not. Where Shayan could barely tolerate that apartment earlier, now he rarely left it. He waited to draw Suvarna's portraits like a child awaiting her day's quota of candy. The portraits were few and far between. But when they came, he never failed to show them to me. I began counting the days when Shayan's Suvarna would die, so I could have a normal conversation with him. It was all he spoke of. It was all he thought of. And he didn't seem to think it was unhealthy at all. How much could I, a veritable stranger, interfere? And what would I say? That I didn't want a dead woman capturing all his attentions? That I wanted him to finish her off as quickly as possible so we would be rid of her spectre?

One crisp Wednesday morning, I knocked on Shayan's door. We were to travel to work together and shoot his segment for the tragedy episode of Realty Check. The sight that met me had me rushing to clear my face of disgusted incredulity. From his bedraggled hair to his thoughtlessly assembled clothes, Shayan looked like a complete mess. "Is this how you want to appear on national television?" I asked him. He had the grace to look sheepish. "I'm sorry, I haven't dressed up in so long." You haven't been out in so long, I wanted to say. "Let's get you into something better. And do you have a comb somewhere?" I asked, walking past him into the house, now littered eerily with Suvarna's paintings. She appeared to have hit her sixties in the latest one, occupying pride of place on the wall, above the clock.

"Do you own any formals at all?" I asked Shayan, rummaging through the clothes in his cupboard. "Sorry. I detest those things." I finally settled upon a crisp white kurta and grey cotton pants. I pulled the comb through his hair, which was slightly wet and smelt of fragrances I didn't recognise. I had him sit on the bed and leaned over to brush his hair, the gesture feeling oddly intimate and unsettling. "I've become too obsessed with my paintings, haven't I?" Shayan asked, his breath teasing my chest tantalisingly. I wanted to take the opportunity to lash out at him and let him know what an antisocial freak he had turned into. But there was a note of disarming vulnerability in his voice that made me desist. "You just need to get out more," I said. "And wasn't your break supposed to last only for a couple of months?" "I don't feel like getting back to the routine of a job," Shayan shrugged. "My savings should see me through for couple more months. After that, I might consider taking up one." "Or you could sell these paintings," I suggested intrepidly. Shayan stood up to look at said paintings, depicting the aging and impeccably lovely Suvarna in various angles and magnifications. “I don’t think I could do that. Not even posthumously,” he said, making my bones freeze.

[To be continued]

The Challenge of Monogamy

You've been single for donkey’s years and you've spent most of your lonely evenings flirting with every attractive member of the opposite sex you can find. And then one day, you strike gold. Sparks fly, laden exchanges occur and a few dates later, wham, you’re in a relationship! Gone are those days of simultaneous, multiple sexting and picking up random strangers at the bar for a night of guilt-free, no-strings-attached sex. Humans, we are creatures of habit. And once habituated to something, no matter how serious the consequences, we are inclined to keep the kicks coming. In this age of instant and perennial access to anyone you've ever known, met or simply spoken to, absolute monogamy is a surprising feat to achieve.

The challenge comes in the form of a flirty comment from someone you once fancied or an amorous glance from an attractive colleague. Does the impulse to react to attention from the opposite sex ever completely leave us? It certainly does not make the desired exit as soon as one is ‘committed’. Humans, we are capable of mating for life. But monogamy was simpler in the days of yore when people valued propriety and opportunities for indiscretion were rare. In today’s social environment where men and women are thrown together in every avenue of life, one has to be game for a bit of friendly flirting in order not to be perceived as uptight.

Physical indiscretion is not something most of us would risk or condone. The rules are however dangerously fluid in the relative safety of cyberspace. Friendship requests from strangers on popular social networking sites have been the butt of innumerable jokes. But others like Twitter are designed precisely for interaction with people you may not know personally. This quality makes it a brilliant tool, no doubt but it also runs the risk of breeding unseemly coquetry. Connecting on the basis of physical attractiveness seems woefully shallow and yet, we humans are indiscriminately prone to it. Given the choice between an intelligent and attractive person of the opposite sex and an intelligent but unattractive one, in all honesty, we would probably choose the former.

So where do we draw the line between ‘harmless’ flirtation and a potentially threatening dalliance? On the liberal side of things, it may be prudent to turn a blind eye to anything that does not directly affect your relationship or your equation with the person concerned. But on the flip side, given the fickleness of human emotions, one can never predict when a random word may escalate into full-blown infidelity. Yet others may argue that infidelity only highlights that the relationship was ill-fated anyway. But human relationships are not as simple as that, certainly. We operate in perpetually confusing shades of grey and in the process of decoding these shades, sometimes they lose their significance altogether.

The era when the mere meeting of eyes or the brush of fingers could serve as precursor to a passionate love affair, would simply amuse the present generation. Today, our lives and our loves have now become so convoluted that even monogamy is an issue. All that it demands really, is a certain level of dignity in our exchanges with the opposite sex. On a subtler level, it also demands drawing a line between genuine admiration and vying for attention. It means, knowing when not to over-extend and when to avoid certain subjects lest they degenerate into innuendo-laced conversations. Sounds simple enough, doesn’t it? But until we master the art, perhaps ignorance really is bliss.